“Sure,” I say deadpan. “What I mean is: smile, be nice, pretend you’re happy to be here.”
His answer is immediate, flat. “Iamhappy to be here.”
June watches us like she’s courtside at Wimbledon, eyes flicking back and forth, drinking in every barb.
“June and I will be with you the whole time,” I continue, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “Our goal is to capture content and post it in real time. We’ll stay out of your way as much as possible, but just… be yourself. Remember, everyone out there came to see you.”
His eyes hold mine, gray and stormy, his face a mask of control. “Then I’ll try my best to be nice.”
The field looks like a stage set for a legend. The entire team sits in rows of crisp tracksuits, executives and staff lined behind them. Screens the size of houses flicker to life with Rogue’s highlight reel—saves that defy physics, his infamous World Cup block, his name echoing across the roar of 60,000 voices. Then come the tributes: past teammates, coaches, legends of the game, all offering their respect.
Beside me, June’s phone is a blur in her hands, already slicing clips into stories and reels, posting faster than I can track. Around us, the crowd is losing their minds. Through it all, Rogue sits stone-faced in the center of it, a rock in the storm. Stoic, untouchable.
But more than once, when the lights shift or the noise crests, his eyes flick sideways, searching, and every time, they find me.
Aiden Brooks takes the mic, his voice booming with the easy authority of a captain. He talks about legacy, about what it means to welcome someone like Rogue into the Strikers' family.About how grateful they are to learn from him, fight beside him, and maybe, finally, win it all. The stadium explodes with applause.
And then it’s Rogue’s turn.
He stands, tall and steady, and the entire place erupts again. A wall of cheers and applause goes on and on until it feels like the air itself is vibrating. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t flinch either. He just waits, hands resting on the podium, until the noise starts to fade.
“Thank you,” he begins, voice low, brogue curling around the word. “Thank you to the Strikers organization, to the lads, and to the supporters fillin’ these seats tonight. It means more than I can put into words.”
He pauses, scanning the crowd, his jaw tight like he’s wrestling with what to say next. Then his eyes find mine, and it’s like the rest of the stadium disappears.
“I’ve been playin’ this game a long time. And aye, I know this will be my last year on the pitch. That should feel like an endin’. But standin’ here tonight, it doesn’t. It feels like the start of somethin’ new. A different chapter.”
His hand flexes against the podium, knuckles pale under the lights. “This isn’t about walkin’ away,” he says, voice rougher now, feeling the weight of it all. “It’s about steppin’ into somethin’ I never thought I’d have again. Somethin’ beautiful. I’m lookin’ forward to learnin’ from every lad on this team, and from everyone who makes it what it is on the pitch, aye, but off it as well. That’s where the real family is.”
The crowd erupts, a tidal wave of noise crashing against the field, but I barely hear it. My phone hangs useless at my side, forgotten. Because with 60.000 people chanting his name, Roger Gallagher is still looking at me.
And God help me—I can’t look away. My chest refuses to rise, lungs stalled as if taking a breath might break whatever invisible thread has him focused on me.
Chapter 9
The next few days pass in a blur.
Regular season is officially in full swing, which means my days are jam-packed with early mornings, daily meetings, and back-to-back practice coverage. The Strikers’ first game of the season is in Houston, and the thought of going home, if only for a couple of days, makes me a little giddy. I’ll get to see my sister and drag her to the stadium so she can watch me work.
Every morning starts the same. My alarm goes off, I swipe at my phone with one eye half-open, and there it is, a sweet message from @HalfWritten.
Sometimes, it’s simple:Good morning, baby girl. Hope today treats you better than yesterday.
Sometimes, it’s playful:Wake up, you’re missing the sunrise, and I bet you’d look gorgeous in it.
But this morning, it’s different.
@HalfWritten:
Good morning, baby girl. Tell me you got more than five hours of sleep.
@OneLastLine:
Six. Which is basically a luxury for me.
@HalfWritten:
Still not enough. You’ll burn out if you keep running like this.
